


Service à la Russe

by diatribes_from_eden



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Biblical nonsense, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Historical References, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Multi, Pining, Sex, hozier was onto something when he wrote from eden
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 15:10:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20211805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diatribes_from_eden/pseuds/diatribes_from_eden
Summary: For as long as there have been restaurants, there has been an angel to eat at them. And for as long as an angel has eaten, there has been a demon to keep him company, pick up the tab, and walk him home.Crowley never took to food quite the way Aziraphale did, but that hasn't stopped him from accompanying the angel through a list of restaurants that would make Anthony Bourdain (rest his soul) weep in sheer ecstasy.If only he weren't so hungry afterwards...





	Service à la Russe

** Israel**

It’s dawn and Crowley is sitting on the banks of the Jordan, watching.

They haven’t seen each other for a decade, aren’t supposed to for another week. But Crowley, for all his temptation and self-restraint and _sin_, has never had the patience for waiting. Instead he lounges, bare feet on hot sand, face shrouded, sweating. Across the water John the Baptist is performing one of his last sermons. The prophet’s voice rolls like thunder across the river, full of promise and the ecstasy of divinity.

Aziraphale is… helping. Not directly of course. That’s too on the nose for Upstairs these days what with Her literal son roaming the planet. Instead, he’s seeped divine energy like honey through the water. It ebbs and flows like a golden current around the waiting, curls like smoke around calves and waists, protecting and easing the sins of the wretched. Crowley is amazed, actually, that humans can’t see it. The effect is blinding and for a brief moment he wonders what it would feel like to drown in that much holiness. Could you baptize a demon? Would it wash away the hurt and pain of falling the same way it eases the consciousness of humans? Or would it burn in a way hellfire and holy water never could? He’s half tempted to find out but tucks (shoves) the thought in between the buttresses of his achingly fragile rib cage and continues watching.

It’s past midday before John’s train of followers finally trickles to a drip. Crowley watches Aziraphale extract himself from the water in a way that can only be described as tender, a smile of satisfaction playing across an impossibly ancient face. The angel has a fondness for humans that already sticks out like a sore thumb among the others of his kind. Eden, it turns out, was only the beginning of Aziraphale’s headfirst dive into self-sacrificing, human martyrdom. It’s beautiful and absurd all at once.

They make eye contact as Crowley stands to leave. Love radiates across the sand like an incoming storm, held aloft with winds bringing the promise of a real rain. Aziraphale snaps his head back when he sees him, concern clouding an unreadable expression. The agreement at this point is only a tiny, tentative bubble of an idea passed between acquaintances. It doesn’t even have a capital letter yet. Crowley dismisses the look with a wrist-flick wave over his shoulder, heart capsizing like a ship on the Nile delta. It shouldn’t sting, but there’s a taste in his mouth like bitter almonds and lightning.

* * *

A week later, they meet in the markets of Jerusalem during Passover and Crowley’s hair has the same red-slick shine as the tiles of the temple steps. It’s almost dusk and the city is bathed in the dull orange glow of the setting sun. Aziraphale kisses his cheek absentmindedly, glancing over to a table of honeyed dates and for a moment, the demon considers what would happen if he turned his head a little bit further left. Probably blasphemy, he hopes with a dry swallow. Lots and lots of blasphemy.

Tempting angels is part of Crowley’s job description, written in scrawling handwriting under his signature. It’s an underlined footnote [1] of a much larger clause on lust printed in Dagon’s neat, block letters. The text mentions a great deal about the necessities of spreading sins of the flesh and Crowley has done his best to give the task due diligence. Having Cleopatra was filling in a way alcohol could never even pretend to be. Having Alexander and Patroclus was even better. Nowhere in his downstairs contract, however, is a contingency plan on how to deal with the slightly too rapid staccato of his own heartbeat when Aziraphale laughs. Or, for that matter, the wire thin ache that settles in his lower stomach when the angel levels a glance at him for just a bit too long.

Aziraphale is quietly murmuring something about John the Baptist and King Herod as they walk. Around them are the smells of the market, all cook fires and meat and sweat. Satan help him, there are so many people here. They press like waves within the city’s walls, slide past each other like impossible schools of fish. A child skirts the corner of Aziraphale’s robe, casting a sullen backwards glance as she shoves by. Crowley hisses once in her direction with too much tongue and teeth and not enough menace, but the crowd swallows the noise before it can reach her.

“Really, my dear.”

Aziraphale tuts but continues talking. The angel has a hand draped casually around Crowley’s elbow as they’re jostled. They’ve touched plenty of time before, but physical intimacy is a new experience for both of them, born out of the necessities of Crowley’s wardrobe in a Roman-occupied city. He’s dressed as a woman these days, is a woman if the Effort’s made. Aziraphale had done a double take when he noticed fully, but Crowley found that he liked this form well enough. Less bits to worry about, for a start. A gentle curve of the hip that makes walking a more pleasant, sensual experience.

Crowley’s just about to ask what the heaven they’re supposed to do about with the literal son of God, when a screech rings out from the temple beside them.

Aziraphale jumps, literally jumps, and grabs Crowley’s hand. Something blooms in the demon’s chest, then catches fire and settles. He think he might discorporate.

“Oh I really don’t know why they do that. She doesn’t even _like_ lamb.”

Crowley starts to chuckle but bites it into a mirthful smile after a rather pointed look from the figure beside him. Exasperation rolls off Aziraphale like a fog, a mixture of concern and impatience at what’s to come for this tiny realm of civilization. It isn’t just the lamb, Crowley knows. It’s the uncertain absolution of the Ineffable Plan. It’s John and Jesus and Herod and a million other characters stuck in a dice game that none of them signed up for. Crowley closes his eyes and thinks back to a time, not too long ago, when the rain came down in a sheets and swallowed up the surrounding world. He wants to offer some form of light-hearted reassurance, some genuine statement of support and solidarity. Something scathing about the ineffable lack of fallacy regarding God and lambs and dietary restrictions. Instead, he swallows down words, opting to look away over the markets. The angel is still clutching his hand.

“Let me take your mind off it.” He offers instead. “Tempt you to dinner, angel?"

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Like this.  [return to text]
> 
> Service à la russe is a style of dining where food is brought out and served in courses, rather than all at once. In this case, each chapter will be a different dish, a different interaction, and a different time. I can't say yet how long the meal will last, only that I hope it's delicious for everyone involved.


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